


Echoes After Night

by pqlaertes



Category: Forever Knight
Genre: Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Dubious Consent, M/M, Masturbation, Mind Control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-30
Updated: 2012-03-30
Packaged: 2017-11-02 17:43:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pqlaertes/pseuds/pqlaertes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick and Dr. Amanda Turner learn about themselves in the aftermath of Night in Question</p>
            </blockquote>





	Echoes After Night

Sixteen hours on call and finally, bedtime. She shucked off the bleach-spattered sweats she had worn home and almost fell into bed. Wiggling under the covers she rolled to her belly and fumbled, her surgeon's hands gone stupid, on the catch of the bra. Finally it came free and she dropped it over the side of the bed. She was almost too tired to roll to her back again, but sex was calling to her, a deep ache mixed with slow sleepiness. Syrupy.

Dr. Amanda Turner floped to her back, stretched her sore neck from side to side and kissed her fingers.

 

* * *

_Synchronicity._

 

* * *

"I've hurt a lot of people."

"Yes, Nickolas."

"Have I hurt you?"

"Many times."

What kind of response can you make to that?

"Do you remember how to dance, Nickolas?"

 

* * *

She liked the feeling of fingers against her lips much better than the feeling of wet lips on her fingers. She'd never liked the finger-sucking thing so many guys were into. It just felt... wet.

But fingers on her lips, that was good, kissing, kissing.

An image of beautifully formed lips flashed into her mind, full sensuous curvings. Her fingers pressed hard against her mouth and she imagined those lips there. Who in god's name had lips like that? Who?

She let her other hand play over her side, her belly, fingertips tickling over nerves, waking them.

Her legs shifted restlessly against each other.

 

* * *

"Here, Nickolas, I will lead. No, not at your feet, Nickolas, at me, at my face."

"I'll step on your feet."

"You will not."

Not something to be argued with.

"Good. What the mind has forgotten the body remembers."

One two three four. One two three four.

Something in him remembered this, here was a turn. He steps in, and LaCroix also steps in, yes. From there the rest of the movement was natural, perfect, turning in place with more grace than he would have believed possible.

Thighs, chests pressed tight. And a sudden warm awareness.

 

* * *

Her hand wandered down to her right breast and stroked the nipple, feeling it harden and relax and harden again under her fingers. She traced a tightening spiral around the other breast that never quite reached the nipple.

Then down to hips and thighs, tickling, reminding herself of her body, her whole body, not lost now under shapeless graybluegreen.

She cupped her breasts, liking the feel of them in her hands as much as she liked the feel of her hands on them. Warm, soft.

Her head turned back and forth on the pillow.

She dropped her palm onto her left breast and dragged the fingers together, meeting at the point, pulling the nipple just slightly between five fingertips. Again. Again.

That mouth again, open just a little as though to speak. And then closing on her nipple, suckling there. Those lips tenderly closing on her nipple. Those lips.

She made a sound at the back of her throat as an almost painful chord was struck in some deep place inside her belly. Her breathing quickened, first in anticipation, pleasure, and then in frustration.

Those lips weren't there. God only knew whose they were anyway. And not having them was crazy-making. Her hips bucked a milimeter and her back arched, straining her breasts towards those lips, the warm clamp of that mouth on her.

 

* * *

Quickstep and waltz finally gave way to the sort of rhythmic swaying one sees at teenage parties.

"You..."

"Shh, Nicola... beau... petite." LaCroix shifted back slightly and looked into Nick's eyes.

French, yes. He had thought French so beautiful when he was learning it as a boy... but the memory of French lessons fell away, leaving only frustration and the meaningless, useless information that his first language was no longer spoken by anyone, only echoes of it remained.

He watched LaCroix watch a tear slide down his face.

"Why tears, Nickolas?" How LaCroix loved naming him; that was a memory that didn't slip through his fingers. LaCroix had always loved to say his name.

"Je ne sais..." but he was lost, and even French and English were falling away from him.

LaCroix pressed his lips against Nick's cheek in a delicate, tender gesture, then took his hand.

He let himself be led.

 

* * *

Her hand dropped finally between her legs, stroked slick hot skin, finding dampness. Her fingers slipped that much more easily against her swelling flesh.

She ground her hips in a little circle, content in the satisfaction to come. Yes, this was good, this was going to be good.

She moved her fingers, rubbing hard at first, pushing herself up, towards it, reaching, reaching.

A low voice whispered breathily to her, suggesting, telling. She couldn't make out the words.

A spark twitched through her and she flashed on a face, a glowing white face in the dark, smiling. The shape of that smile...

Her breasts ached for him.

She backed off a little, lightly rubbing her thumb over wet, swollen flesh.

Then she pushed again. Her fingers ground into her skin and she began to move her hips in deep rhythms.

 

* * *

"Here, Nickolas."

Natalie must have lied to him. How could he ever have fought against this? No one had that strength.

"Now, Nickolas."

Slivers of forgotten faces cut at him, left him all the more lost, all the more needing. LaCroix's hands guided him.

"Yes, Nickolas. Yes."

 

* * *

Almost, almost. But it faded. What a time to hit ebb tide. She fingered herself roughly, frustrated, angry. Why not? Why not?

Finally, with a grunt, she let her hands fall to her sides.

A soon as she closed her eyes she saw that ghost face again, heard the echoes of the nothings he said to her. She bucked on the bed in sheer response and her hands reached frantically between her thighs.

Now. Now.

But she lingered on the edge, frustrated tears squeezing out of her eyes. What was it going to take?

She rubbed harder than she would usually have dared at delicate flesh. Closer, closer. Yes.

Her left hand came up suddenly and squeezed her throat, blocking air, hurting windpipe.

The cry that tried to choke out as she came would have been the first she ever made during orgasm.

When the shuddering stopped she registered numb fingers, pins and needles in her toes, and the most delicious feeling of total pleasure.

What was happening to her. This was sick, sick.

Oh god.

She touched her throat and felt a cool little thrill shock through her belly. And she knew that if she pressed down hard the feeling would intensify, her hips would begin to move again, her breath would try to quicken.

Disgust and embarassment and shame clenched in her belly, and she whimpered, knowing that she could drive them all away only by pushing down, squeezing.

When she closed her eyes and curled on her side, hoping to sleep this all away, she saw those lips smiling at her again.

Her breasts hurt for want of that mouth, and her throat felt wrong without that tightness around it.

 

* * *

At home in his own bed, Nick remembered, and watched his hands tremble.

=1996=


End file.
